Transcendence (a sequel to Redemption)
by MajorBachman
Summary: Hannibal and Clarice continue to rid the world of monsters. But these don't stay at home, hiding under beds...
1. Prologue

**Welcome back, dearest readers, to a new experiment...**

**Anyone familiar with my work will know fellow fanfic writer Duffie83 and I wrote a collab called Redemption in 2011/2012, which we posted under her account. We'd write alternating parts of the story (mines ending with [MB], hers ending with [D]) and we kept planning and plotting as minimal as possible, and see what we'd come up with. Well, the results were, in our humble opinion, very gratifying. To those of you who haven't read that story yet, we suggest you do for two reasons: it truly is an extraordinary read, and this collab you have before you is a sequel to it.**

**When we finished writing Redemption we didn't part ways, but agreed not to write a new collab. At least not in the immediate future. But lucky you, time has passed sufficiently for us to give it a new try!**

**As with Redemption, we're starting with a prologue, a teaser, an amuse-bouche. We hope you'll like it. We'll try to post a new chapter every two weeks, and sooner if possible.**

**Enjoy the ride!**

**Major Bachman & Duffie83**

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

As the sun slowly but surely racked cold shadows of the surrounding mountains over Seyðisfjørður, Clarice and Hannibal watched the Smyril ferry make its appearance in the fjord. Not even a brief smile of satisfaction appeared on Clarice's face. With all the useless manslaying they'd encountered on Europe's mainland leading them to this moment, there was nothing to smile about.

The hunt had consumed them these last months, sometimes following only the slightest whiffs, sometimes postulating what course to take, but always limited in their options as their passports were as fake as their identities, all part of their Vita Nuova. Hannibal had deviously supplied her with one that allowed her some measure of cooperation with authorities, her papers were in the name of Clarice Spreeuw, a Dutch Interpol employee.

They'd celebrated their one year anniversary en route. She'd sworn vengeance for that fact. [MB]


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

_**6 months earlier**_

"Marry me, Clarice."

A startled laugh escaped her before she could stifle it. A flicker of something, maybe anger, or even worse, perhaps hurt, flickered in the maroon depths of Hannibal's eyes. "Do you find me droll, my dear?" There was a definite edge in his voice.

She reached over and grabbed his hand, enclosing her fist around his thumb- the very thumb he'd chose to sever rather than to physically harm her in any way all those years ago.

"I often find you droll, but that's because you're so damn clever. No, you just surprised me, that's all." She gave him a wobbly smile and settled her cheek against his bare chest as she fought sudden breathlessness. Even if the two of them were the type of people to marry, which of course, they were not, the proposal was just so unlike Hannibal. No grand production or presentation. No flowers or elaborate meal. They lay naked in their bed beneath Egyptian cotton sheets, late morning light peeking through cracks in the blinds. They'd overslept, Clarice needed to pee, and she was quite sure her morning breath was spectacularly foul after last night's wine.

She felt him shift so he could look down at her. "Well? Will you marry me, love?" [D]

"How?" she asked. "Under what alias? Where?"

"I had hoped for a simple yes, Clarice. A no was possible, too, though not desired."

Hannibal looked at her expectantly, an arm under his head and a pillow under his arm. He studied Clarice as she processed his words and his proposal.

It was common for Clarice to swiftly circle a situation to find the best point of entry, and sometimes she didn't even do that, but now he remained still and waited as she decidedly took her time to ponder. He perceived she had trouble _not_ proceeding into assessing consequences but to stay with the proposal itself and consider it on its own merits. Her eyes darted to and fro.

"Okay, I will. I will marry you, Hannibal."

"Good," he replied.

In the silence that followed Clarice waited expectantly for more, only to finally realize there wasn't any coming.

"That's it? Good? I don't see a ring, I don't get a kiss for my answer, I don't... Apparently, that's it?"

"Yes, it is. As you immediately stated - but that was not what I wanted to hear - us getting married the official way will prove difficult. Perhaps your name won't sound any alarms, my name certainly will. Getting married under a false name is not legally valid. The question is: do we _need_ an official registration in a civil registry? What would define a marriage for us? I believe..."

"Spot on, Sherlock," Clarice interrupted. "But if you propose to a girl, even..."

"...that all we have left and all that we need is the knowledge... "

"...in our case," she continued, "there's no way around some kind of official moment or tradition..."

"...that we wish to and will share our lives and everything from now on..."

"...to sanctify or celebrate that moment. Merely saying 'yes' and 'good'..."

"...and the vocalization of that intention is our ceremony. Do you really need..."

"...does not qualify as..."

"...a couple of signatures or a ring as this one?"

With an elaborate movement, Hannibal reached inside the night stand and retrieved a small box and an envelope from the drawer. As he brought the box to her face, he skillfully popped its lid with his index finger, giving her a clear view of an intricate white and yellow gold wedding ring.

"I, Hannibal Spreeuw, hereby wed thee, Clarice Miranda Starling."

"_Spreeuw_?"

"Yes, love. And here's the ID to prove it," he said as he retrieved two Dutch passports from the envelope. [MB]

A surprising anger unfurled inside of her. So marriage was a jest? No, not a jest, a cover. Curiosity overpowered but didn't diminish her hurt.

She sat up, the fine sheet slipping down and baring her breasts. She didn't miss the way Hannibal's eyes followed the movement, and a smirk played at her lips as she reached over and grabbed the documents from him. Good. Let him feel even a little of the unbalance she did.

She ran her fingers over the red cover of the top passport before opening it up. "Dutch, huh? Hell, and here I already put my wooden shoes in storage." Then, tone earnest, she asked, "What's going on, Hannibal?"

Ignoring her inquiry, he entwined his fingers with hers. "You're angry." A statement, not a question.

Clarice sighed. "No," but after a pause, "well, yeah. Angry at you _and_ myself. You hurt my feelings, and I'm pissed at myself for letting you, mad at myself for feeling this way." She sat the passports on her nightstand and turned back to him. "I've never wanted marriage, never needed to prove anything to you or myself. But for a second there, I thought it was something you wanted, so I was fine with it, which surprised me. But now I feel ..." she searched for the word.

"Rejected?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes, that's it. And I think you intended that, and I don't appreciate being some damn psychology experiment."

Hannibal's pupils expanded, his red eyes turning black. "Perhaps, my dear, it is I who feared rejection. And if there was an experiment, I assure you, I was as much a test subject as you were."

Clarice chewed on that, knew it was something they would circle back to, and finally leaned over and pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. She stayed there, the tip of her tongue tracing the seam of his granite lips until he responded, softening and opening. Welcoming. She pulled back enough to offer him a smile. "Tell me why we're going Dutch." [D]

"Sometimes even I make random choices, Clarice, or almost random. The Dutch are known for their mastery of foreign languages, while others don't speak theirs."

Clarice considered for a moment, then smiled.

"And what about a honeymoon?"

"What about it?"

"Since we're _married_ now, I want a honeymoon," Clarice teased as she reseated herself and let the sheet slip down even further.

"We could spend our _wittebroodsweken_ in the sun."

"In the sun?"

"A Dutch expression. Many spend their summer holidays in Southern Europe, where there's a better chance of dry and warm weather. They say they go to the sun."

"Sounds excellent."

"Does Barcelona sound excellent too?"

Clarice gave him a knowing look.

"Let me guess, you've made reservations already? You never ask me what _I_ want," she mocked and she pulled the sheet back up, knowing Hannibal would pounce upon the chance and pull it back down again, and then... well, that needs to further explanation, does it? [MB]


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

"I believe I prefer it when my food is not staring back at me," Clarice said, eyeballing the roasted pig's shrunken but still-present eyes. The whole beast sat on a platter before them.

Hannibal smiled at her, a toothy grin, and squeezed her hand under the fine linen tablecloth. Their waiter gave them a polite smile, a curving of lips that didn't reach his eyes, and she knew it was likely he didn't understand English. The waiter picked up a carving knife and gestured to their dinner plates. She tipped her head and said, "Si, por favor," though she couldn't quite inject enthusiasm into the words. He cut into the flank of the animal and placed a steaming, juicy slice of pork first on her plate, then on Hannibal's.

"¿Necesitan algo mas?" The waiter asked, formal, benignly bored.

"No, no, está bien. Gracias," Clarice answered him. He bowed and left them to their meal.

"It's a preference of many, " Hannibal said, pausing to sip his Pinot noir. "Neatly packaged portions of meat, sans eyeballs, feathers, hooves, and any other bothersome odd or end. Purchased from some neatly laid out, brightly lit grocer. Neatly prepared at home, likely with some super food that is all the rage, quinoa, or kale perhaps." His grin widened, and his eyes burned into hers. "All very neat, very clean. But there is something to be said for an authentic experience, the smothering insulation of civility ripped away." He picked up his knife and fork and cut into the pork, lifting a piece to his mouth. Small, sharp teeth bit into the white flesh. "Don't you crave authenticity, my dear?"[D]

"Authenticity my ass, _Hans_," Clarice retorted, emphasizing his false Dutch first name, and she demonstratively pinned a big chunk of the suckling pig meat on her fork and waved it between their faces. "I happen to know Catalonia's kitchen's not famous for its pig. And I'm lucky they speak Spanish as well as their own Catalan. You could have mentioned that, though, before you simply started showing off to me when you addressed this pig of a waiter in his own language. What is it you really want to show me?" she asked, and with that she stuffed the pork in her mouth. It was good, she admitted to herself.

Hannibal's grin spread even further than before; it was getting harder each day playing games with her. Maybe one day, just maybe, tickling her inquisitive bone wouldn't work anymore.

"Forgive me, _Clarice_," he said sincerely, deliberately pronouncing her name the Dutch way, and squeezed her hand once more. "Perhaps I could be more straightforward from time to time."

Clarice stopped chewing for a moment in order to digest his words. He wasn't this direct often. She swallowed.

"I'd like that," she said.

"That's settled then," Hannibal said. Knowing the waiter didn't understand English and since they were the only guests in the restaurant so far - their reservation was made according to Dutch dinner time, not Catalan - he explained why he'd picked Barcelona, and this place. [MB]

Minutes later Clarice sat back in her chair, exhaling a long breath. She made eye contact with the waiter, who came over with surprising quickness, and placed an order for coffee. She needed to shake off her wine lethargy in order to give Hannibal's words full consideration.

"What, specifically, makes you think these crimes are connected?" she asked, then added, "Plus, two murders does not a serial killer make." Not that she doubted him. Hannibal was always right about these things. And he must be pretty damn sure about his theory since they'd crossed countries and secured new identities to be here. Still, sometimes she needed to know how the synapses fired in that enigmatic brain of his.

"The wounds, my dear. Made with a very unique blade. A knife with three razor-sharp edges twisted into a pointed, lethal tip."

Hannibal's enthusiasm for the weapon was palpable, and Clarice took note of the possible Christmas idea before moving on to her objection. "How can you possibly know that?"

"We live in the Information Age. Though I frequent a number of respectable news sites, sometimes it is educational to browse less mainstreamed offerings." Clarice nodded, understanding. Just the other night they'd sat out on the balcony, discussing Liberia's recent civil war. Clarice referenced a BBC article she'd read, and Hannibal walked into their bedroom and returned with his laptop. He pulled up a site known for its gritty documentaries, and though she found the images horrifying, she had to admit the reporter offered, if not an unfiltered, at least a less filtered glimpse into the realities of the situation.

"Okay, so you found leaked crime scene photos?"

He nodded. "Something of the sort. The victim was from a wealthy, politically influential family. She was young, attractive, died a bloody death. Her murder garnered a great deal of media attention." Hannibal paused to sip his wine as the waiter returned with Clarice's coffee. She thanked him, and picked up the mug, letting its heavy weight warm her hands as Hannibal continued. "Photos are often leaked in such cases. I downloaded them, expecting to see a boorish hack job. But these wounds were ...unique."

"The three sided knife," she said. "I understand you'd be intrigued. But how do you know the murder here in Barcelona is connected? I can't imagine there would be much media attention for a homeless man who bled out in an alley."

"There was, of course, very little coverage of an elderly transient's violent end, but something about that young woman's death felt like an amuse-bouche to me. Somebody's just getting started. They've had a little taste and crave more."

She set her coffee down. "You've been keeping your eye on stabbing fatalities, waiting for him to move on to his next course." She paused, then blurted, "He's not actually eating them, is he?"

He grinned. "No, love. The quick spurts of blood are his thrill, his purpose. I doubt he's even taking souvenirs, at least not yet."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You've been hacking into police records, looking at wound photographs. How many cases before you found a match?"

His grin widened. "Perhaps a dozen or so." [D]

Clarice lifted her mug again trying to hide her own grin from Hannibal's gaze, knowing it would be in vain as the mirth would shine in her eyes as well. She took a few sips to compose herself enough to save her face.

"Let's visit the crime scene," she said after some antagonizing moments.

.

As they neared the place where the woman was found slain, Clarice could easily see why the killer would have picked a place like this. A cramped street, not much more than an alley, laden with shops. Recognizing a good number of the shops she knew this street would be busy during the day but utterly deserted after closing time, like now.

"Do you know where she was found?"

"Just half a block beyond."

Clarice looked both sides, then slowly progressed into the small street.

Hannibal chuckled. This part of his little game had landed beautifully, it was easy to perceive Clarice was in her element. He followed her as she scanned the surroundings, looking for answers or clues to answers to questions the case raised.

Any regular police force is fit for the regular job presented. A small town officer would know how to convince Joe from next door not to drive home blind drunk. Big city cops were well acquainted with homicides. But not even the latter were up to this kind of task. The FBI certainly tried to fill the gap but Hannibal mused it was a mere handful of the FBI's personnel that truly outmatched most serial killers. But this was Europe, and the level of cooperation between police forces of European countries wasn't as extensive. If a killer was on the move, the chances of getting caught were slim. Travelling was expensive. The knife was expensive. The killer had money.

Clarice halted at a corner where one building protruded a few feet beyond the previous.

"This the place."

"Yes."

_Nobody will ever escape you, my dear._

Hannibal slowly approached her.

"When was this?" she asked.

"Two weeks ago exactly."

"And the other murder?"

"Three weeks earlier."

"Hm."

Hannibal was standing next to her now. She took another look around, a smile on her face.

"You did this on purpose."

Hannibal nodded.

"The proposal, my false identity as an Interpol employee, the dinner in that awful restaurant. All planned."

"Certainly."

"You're good," she said and tugged him nearer, "but I'm good, too."

She kissed him and cupped his jaw with her right hand.

"The killer is on the move," she said. "Madrid first, now Barcelona. That's not a commuter. Three weeks is a long time for the distance. He's not in a hurry. Three-bladed knife? Never heard of it."

"A Microtek Commando."

"Must be difficult to make. Workmanship costs."

"If one is willing to pay the price, anything can be gotten."

"What did I cost you?" Clarice asked, and gave him another kiss before letting her hands explore his body some more.

"My freedom," he replied and started an investigation of his own. His hands travelled across her back down to the bottom of her spine, around her hips and up again. When he touched her breasts, his right hand briefly faltered.

_No... It can't be!_ [MB]


	4. Chapter 3

**Due to the season we post this chapter before the weekend rather than after. After Christmas, that is... ;-)**

**We wish you all the best of days, no matter what way you're going to spend them. See you in 2015! **

**MB&D**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 3<strong>

Clarice never doubted her own mortality. She'd faced it too many times, knew the punch of bullets into her vest intended for her heart and lungs, delivered with indifferent menace. _It's nothing personal, pig._ Felt sweat sting her eyes and drip down her neck as her heart hammered a turbulent staccato, the knife at her back pressed in harder. _Cunt, you're gonna bleed._

Once, she'd cuffed herself to a madman.

She had survived them all, but she'd been lucky. Lucky and good. She could take pride in her skills without suffering any delusions of grandeur. She knew one day she would die.

But she'd be damned if she'd let some little lump on her boob take her out. She could handle this. However, she wasn't sure Hannibal could.

He paced their luxurious hotel room, eyes never meeting hers, hands restless at his sides. "We must leave for Portugal immediately. I have an old friend there, an oncologist."

"Hannibal, we just got here. Just established our new identities, and we have a new hunt. Surely I can see a local doc..."

He shook his head before she could finish. "Absolutely not. Diogo is the best diagnostician I know, and you'll have the best."

Clarice rose from her place on their bed and reached out to his shoulder, causing him to halt his pacing. Finally, he looked her full in the face. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Love, awe, and dread mingled in her stomach.

She reached up and gripped his face with both of her palms. "Love, it's a bump. It's very likely nothing. My daddy would say don't borrow trouble." [D]

She held his gaze for a moment longer.

"I'm here with you, Hannibal. It took some time to get there but I'm not going anywhere soon. I promise. But if it'll make you feel better, we'll go see Diogo."

Hannibal smiled but his smile didn't reach his eyes. His life trembled.

He'd strived to make his life the epitome of stoic acceptance of both Divine providence and human contrivance. Human life was the children's playground where he dug, shoveled and molded, Divine providence the world beyond. Having been confronted with the cold ineluctability of the latter in his childhood he'd turned inwards and kept his eyes on the sand, but his eyes were now drawn towards the periphery of life where the love of his life was led away. He could not help but hold her and keep her with him for as long as he could.

"We leave tomorrow," he said in a tone that allowed no dispute.

.

The next day would have been perfect under normal circumstances. Bright weather that didn't seem to care about human feelings, the landscape alternating between beautiful, exquisite and impressive along the 650 mile route to Gouveia. And the 260 PS Alfa Romeo Brera they'd hired deftly devoured the miles. But a thin veil hung over their conversations and acts that obnubilated the joy they normally experienced in everything.

To anyone else it would appear as if nothing was wrong, just two people on the road, accustomed to each other and long drives. And, if that's what you look for in life, you could say they were okay and fine.

They did talk. Of course they talked, that's how everything started. Just not about... that. They talked about the case. Not that they had much evidence, just what they had seen _in situ_, however brief that moment had been, and what they'd read and seen on the internet that evening.

It was impossible to say anything about motive, MO or pattern with the limited information they had. But the signs were there: this one wouldn't stop.

It wasn't until they passed the Spanish-Portuguese border that the veil seemed to lift slightly, as if entering another country also meant entering another state of mind. It remained an odd sensation to Clarice to cross a border without seeing a single customs officer or barrier.

The GPS directed them to exit the highway in one mile, at Celorico da Beira, and take the N17. 22 miles to go along the edge of the beautiful Parque Natural de Serra da Estrela. [MB]

The landscape was compelling.

Mountains, ravines, and miles of smooth, scattered stones bespoke the long ago movement of ice giants. Glaciers had cut and scraped and carved the earth, carrying and depositing debris along their journey. Millennia later, their creations still lay under the blue, blue Mediterranean sky.

Gentle joy, joie de vivre, unfurled inside of Clarice.

It was a beautiful day, and she was with the man she loved.

She unbuckled her seat belt. The car gave a series of rapid, angry dings, but she ignored them and leaned over and licked Hannibal's neck, whispering in his ear, "Pull over."

He kept his eyes firmly on the narrow, two-lane road, but from her vantage, Clarice could see the corner of his mouth tilt up in a small grin.

"I'm incredibly tempted, love, but we told Diogo we would meet him for dinner."

Clarice nuzzled his neck once more before moving to his earlobe, giving the delicate skin a few gentle love bites, then pulled back and answered, "We're traveling hundreds of miles. People encounter delays." She paused for another nibble. "Traffic." Nibble. "Road construction." Nibble. "Insatiable women demanding roadside service."

Normally he would have picked up her mood and returned her playfulness. Instead, a heaviness, a pensiveness, descended over him.

"It's rude not to keep one's appointments." Which really meant he wanted Diogo to examine her as soon as possible.

Clairce sat back fully in her seat. "Pull over, Hannibal." The sensual teasing was gone from her voice, in its place firm resolve.

Hannibal obliged, braking, downshifting and pulling onto the narrow shoulder. He turned to her, waiting.

She took a deep breath. Exhaled. "I won't live my life in fear. I won't be constrained by fear, and I won't allow you to be either." He started to respond, but she interrupted, cutting him off. "No. Listen. We're not those people, living their perceived safe lives. Working 9-5 jobs with listless eyes so they can vacation in the same spot for two weeks every year. We make our own damn rules." She reached for his hand, rubbing her thumb across his. "None of us are ever really safe. Shit happens, illness happens." Then, more quietly, "Death happens. You and I know that better than many. We don't even know if anything is even wrong with me. What I do know is, I have you. I have this gorgeous day. And I want you to make love to me, now."

Hannibal lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her lower palm. "May I at least pull off the main roadway?"

A dazzling smile broke across her face. "That would be okay." [D]


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Normally, visiting with an old friend would mean driving to his or her place and ringing the doorbell. Doctor Hannibal Lecter, while calling on Doctor Diogo Reguengos de Monsaraz, an old friend, behaved - and Clarice couldn't blame him - as if he was about to visit his archenemy. He stopped and parked on a byway and only exited the car to scan the neighborhood with his binoculars. It took a number of minutes to convince himself things appeared to be safe. He returned to the car and drove around the neighborhood first to convince himself even further. Only then did he venture to park the car some distance from Diogo's. Not too close as to attract attention to Diogo with his Spanish license plate, not too far away to impede a getaway. He waited two more minutes before exiting the vehicle and Clarice could see his antennae working as they stood there. He looked around and slowly retrieved their bags from the trunk before they walked over to the single-detached dwelling.

Clarice had scrutinized the town like he had, only without the binoculars. She was vigilant of anything out of the ordinary, as far as she understood 'ordinary' in this country she had never visited before. But children play, groceries have to be bought, lives have to be lived and this all follows the same basic rules, more or less, in any place. She'd looked for surveillance vans and other vehicles with officials in them when they roamed this part of town, and found none. Diogo seemed solid.

Hannibal preceded Clarice on the balcony towards the front door on the side of the house. Clarice briefly admired the view; Gouveia, located at the foot of the Beira Alta highlands and mountains, offered an impressive view of the Mondego valleys. Hannibal rang the funny little bell next to the door. Its high-pitched sound pierced the smooth but slightly windy silence of the area. It was soon after that the door opened and a weathered faced man, about Hannibal's age, appeared in the doorway. Clarice thought he resembled the middle-aged Ernest Hemingway.

"Diogo," Hannibal spoke.

"Hannibal," the man replied, and smiled. "Como você está?"

"Melhor do que nunca, obrigado. May I introduce you my wife, Clarice?"

"My pleasure," Diogo said as he offered her his hand.

"Please, enter," he then continued as he stood back and motioned them to enter. When Hannibal crossed the threshold, Diogo offered to take the bags from him. Hannibal handed them over and Diogo carried them into the living room and placed them in a corner.

"What's it been, thirty-one years? You've changed more than time could achieve," Diogo said with a knowing smile.

"And three months," Hannibal replied.

"Three? You're not counting Lisbon then? Coffee, anyone?" [MB]

A wry smile twisted Hannibal's lips. "Ah, well, I didn't actually see you then, did I? I merely assisted with cleanup. Coffee would be delightful, thank you."

Clarice didn't miss the emphasis Hannibal placed on the word "cleanup" and her curiosity was more than piqued. She knew he largely trusted Diogo, despite his cautious approach of the man's house. During their 650 mile road trip, he'd shared a few stories of shenanigans the two of them gotten up to in medical school. She shuddered and fought to push the image of cadaver fingers submerged in liquid nitrogen from her brain. Something more than schoolyard chumminess lay between these two for Hannibal to trust not only his freedom but hers to the man.

Diogo motioned to a dark blue settee, "Please, sit." It faced a large window looking out onto the tops of neighbors' red tiled roofs and the sprawling valley beyond.

Clarice and Hannibal sat, and she had just enough time to give Hannibal a nudge and a pointed look. "Cleanup?" she asked in a whisper.

"I'll explain soon, love."

She gave him a nod. She trusted him.

Freshly ground coffee beans permeated the air. Diogo must have already been preparing it when they'd rang his doorbell. He soon returned to them with a tray holding three espresso cups on small white saucers. Clarice accepted hers with a grateful smile and took a small sip. A lighter roast than she preferred, but delicious all the same. Though she sometimes missed elements of home, of the states, she knew Europe had hopelessly spoiled her in regards to coffee and it would be hard to go home to the watery cups of joe found at most diners. Hannibal accepted his, and Diogo placed the tray on a small table and settled into an upholstered chair diagonal from them.

Grinning widely, he addressed Hannibal. "My friend. I knew, I absolutely knew, one day I would see you again. It's so very good to know that you are well. And happily married to such a beautiful woman! The gods have blessed you." Clarice recalled Hannibal saying Diogo had studied Classical literature before switching to medicine.

Hannibal smirked and answered, "The gods are statues who can't manage to keep their own limbs and heads attached. I'd rather not attribute anything in my life to their crumbling divinity. But yes, I'll admit I've been lucky." He reached for Clarice's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You've read of my exploits, I'm sure?"

Diogo snorted. "It would have been hard to avoid. You have international notoriety, friend."

Hannibal dipped his head in acknowledgement. "True. Some of us, our proclivities become known to the world. Others, they manage to keep theirs hidden for long years." His maroon eyes captured Diogo's gaze. "Sometimes forever." [D]

Clarice didn't see Diogo flinch for an instant. She was getting more interested in him by the minute but she knew all things come to those who wait.

"And let's hope for our sakes they'll remain hidden for as _long _as we live," Diogo countered. "But what brings you to my doorstep?"

"Ah, yes. A delicate case."

"I had not expected differently."

The man cast a slight glance at Clarice.

"Yes. I want you to have a look at... something."

"Something? Okay, we'll move to my humble home practice then after coffee," Diogo said, his eyes now completely on Clarice as he spoke.

.

Working with clever people had always been a blessing. Diogo was professional, quick and discrete on top of that. Hannibal letting him examine her in private was obvious proof of his trust and faith in Diogo. But her current physical and emotional circumstances dictated she would have preferred him next to her and it was a difficult nut to crack to accept his absence. His reaction on the situation had been unexpected from the moment his fingers found the spot, it was the first time she'd seen him more agitated than when they'd first met, when Miggs threw his cum on her. Of course she was worried herself, but she would not let this _thing_ paralyze her life. But he, apparently, did.

Clarice redressed behind the screen and when she was done she followed Diogo back into the living room. [MB]

"Well Hans, Diogo here has gotten to second base with me. I think that means I should buy him dinner, or something like that."

Not even a smile from Hannibal. Instead, he looked to Diogo intently. "What is your conclusion?"

Diogo clasped Hannibal's shoulder. "Friend, you yourself are a doctor, and probably the most intelligent person I've ever met. You know I can't diagnose from a single general examination. I'll take Clarice to my affiliated hospital tomorrow. We need a mammography unit." He dropped his hand and stepped away as Clarice moved to stand next to Hannibal. He crossed the room, sat back into the upholstered chair, and continued, "However, your wife is more fit than most 25 year olds I know. She's active and eats healthy. She can't recall a family history of breast cancer, though I understand we can't fully rule that out yet. We'll have a diagnosis soon."

Clarice could actually feel the tension radiating from Hannibal like the heat from a running engine. She stood on tippy toes until her lips brushed his earlobe. She whispered, "We'll have answers soon, and the odds are in our favor. Tonight, I want dinner and dancing." She paused, and a mischievous grin spread across her face. Her whisper dropped even lower, "Seriously, the guy's hands were on my boobs. What are his proclivities?"

Hannibal's lips curved in the smallest of smiles, and Clarice consciously suppressed a sigh of relief. "I'll tell you tonight in bed," he whispered. Then in a louder voice, he addressed Diogo. "I apologize, Diogo. You're right. And my wife is absolutely right, let us take you to dinner." [D]


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"... e um vinho verde, por favor," Diogo said, concluding their order. The waiter nodded and left. On the background sounded some fado softly, a live performance in this small place in Viseu, visited by local habitués only.

"Madrid, and then three weeks later Barcelona?" Diogo asked, continuing the conversation he was having with Clarice mostly. "I remember a murder in Lisbon, 51 days ago, a messy business."

Clarice realized Diogo must have a memory palace of his own. She nodded. "We'll look into it."

"If it's connected, he's on the move. Slowly, but on the move. Lisbon, Madrid, Barcelona."

"Where to next? What big city comes next?"

"He'll have to decide whether to go, north or south."

"It's my estimate he'll turn north," put in Hannibal.

"Most probably, yes," agreed Diogo.

"More cities?" asked Clarice.

"Yes, but also because a border doesn't seem to stop him."

They sat a while in silence. Then they turned at last to the approaching waiter, who balanced a tray with their drinks on one hand and held a plate with some bread and butter in the other.

"Obrigado," said Diogo when the waiter was through and turned to leave.

"I'd guess Montpellier or Marseille. The biggest cities," said Hannibal.

"Guessing is no good," replied Clarice after a moment's thought, "we need more information. I suggest we visit Lisbon as soon as possible, Hans."

Hannibal nodded. [MB]

One song ended and another started. A few guitar notes sounded, then deep, mournful lyrics poured through the small restaurant. To Clarice, the room seemed to darken as well. The shadows in the corners and nooks flickered in the dim light of a dozen candlelit lanterns. Goosebumps erupted across her bare arms.

"What is this music?" She directed her question to both men, but her eyes were on the petite woman across the room singing pure heartbreak.

"Fado. It comes from the Latin word _fatum_," Diogo said, a small smile of pride on his face. "It means "fate". It is an important part of the cultural heritage of my people."

Hannibal reached out and held his hand in hers, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. "Do you understand enough to follow the story she's singing?"

She shook her head. "I know a few words here and there, but not enough to put together a narrative. I imagine it's something about loss." A particularly poignant note rang out, cutting through the air and Clarice's heart. Sudden emotion welled in her throat, and she had to swallow before she could continue. "I imagine it's about grief."

Hannibal nodded and looked to Diogo.

Diogo sat straighter in his chair, seeming excited to act as translator. "This particular ballad is called "Rain". It's among my favorites." He took a sip of his wine before continuing. "She says, 'The common things in life aren't missed, only the memories that make us hurt, or those which make us smile. There are people who stay in our life story, and others whose names we don't even remember'."

Clarice smiled. "I like that—our life story. Makes it seem like there's a purpose to all of this craziness." [D]

"There's more fools outta than within the nut house, my mother used to say," she added with a another smile after a moment's thought.

Diogo exchanged a quick look with Hannibal, who nodded knowingly. He decided he'd wait for her to bring up the subject of family in a private conversation, rather than to goad her.

"Maybe us three bedlamites should take it one day at a time," Clarice ended her line of thought, and took Hannibal's hand. "Cancel my iced tea and make it a _vinho verde_, too."

.

Two weeks!

Two weeks of fear over that stupid bitch, if they have any leads yet. Shit!

Had to have a famous _daddy_ too, who couldn't stop crying over losing his baby. Well mister, she wasn't innocent anymore I assure you. Sick bitch.

Dickhead.

F- everybody.

Stupid people everywhere. France too. Good for nothing. Oh yes, for one thing. Yes. Yes!

Don't you admire Doyle, how he dared to have Sherlock walking around carrying a bloody harpoon? Stab the pigs!

.

Hannibal, ever the gentleman, offered Clarice his arm and walked her inside. She took a seat in the lobby while Hannibal checked in.

Looking around was easy, she could do that. Hello, mister. Smile. There's Hannibal again. That's my man.

"Clarice?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Done?"

"Yes, my love. Let's go."

"Sure," she said and grasped his offered hand.

"The suite's on the ground floor, just over there."

"Good. No stairs."

"Indeed, no stairs, my love. Okay, we're almost there."

"I'm tired."

"Just a few more steps, my love."

Hannibal opened the door to the suite and guided Clarice in. He closed the door with a kick of his foot and helped her to the bed. She sat down, then slumped over.

"I'm going to sleep now."

"That's good, Clarice."

"Love you."

"I love you too."

He eased her down, then removed her dress as gently as he could and covered her with the comforter.

"Sleep well."

"Hmm... Mommy used to tuck me in real tight."

Hannibal smiled and did the same. [MB]

.

Clarice awoke with a dry mouth and the slightest of headaches. Not a full blown hangover, for which she was grateful.

She'd only had a couple of glasses. That green wine apparently carried quite a kick. _Kryptonite._ She blew out an amused puff of air through chapped lips.

Gloomy dawn light seeped through the blinds. It was time for her run, except that wasn't happening today. She had an early appointment with Diogo at his hospital.

She rolled over, reaching for Hannibal, but her searching hand only encountered cool sheets. If he had been in bed beside her, he'd been up for a while. Extremely unusual for him. Most days he groused at her early bird chipperness.

She sat up as Hannibal appeared in the doorway, holding a clear glass with some shockingly green concoction in it.

A reluctant smile pulled at her lips. "Please, please tell me that's your breakfast and not mine."

"Alas, my dear, I've sworn to always honor you with the truth. This will help restore your electrolytes."

She snorted and accepted the glass. "How 'bout you honor me with the truth about Diogo? We never did get around to discussing his proclivities last night." She took a sip of the drink. "Gaw! Is that spinach?"

Hannibal joined her on the bed. "It is indeed. Drink up."

She stuck her green tongue out at him. "Sadist."

He grinned, white teeth shining in the brightening room.

"Diogo?" She prompted him.

Hannibal sighed. [D]


End file.
